


Lost in a snow filled sky

by Rigil_Kentauris



Series: kentaurex n0tebook ‐ asks and prompts [3]
Category: Deus Ex (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence Lite, Gen, Identity Issues, Implied Character Death, M/M, Memory Alteration, Self-Doubt, and ALSO regularflavor!Jensen, clone issues, clone theory dependent, illuminati!clone!Adam, oh wait did i say what fun! i meant what’s ‘fun’?, poor madax, srry bby, what fun!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-19 16:10:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16537877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rigil_Kentauris/pseuds/Rigil_Kentauris
Summary: The way you said “I love you“ - With a shuddering gasp





	Lost in a snow filled sky

**Author's Note:**

> this came *this* close to being called mine immaculate dream i might still do it anyway im  
> bless u duranduran for all that thine hath given us  
> ANYWAY more prompts  
> updated and crossposted from the 'tum([x](https://kentaurex.tumblr.com/post/179775523710/lost-in-a-snow-filled-sky))

He knows. He knows. He knows, though he doesn’t believe.

What good has _belief_ ever done him?

His progenitor holds the broken shard of nanoblade tight in a right fist, like a knife held reversed, guarding the upper torso with it. The other fist is empty except for the thick, dark blood that coats and covers fingers.

It's the same blood that wells up and drips out along the long, aching gash in his own side. The same blood that runs un-spilt under the skin of his progenitor.

He can’t bring himself to harm the other man.

Never could, really.

His own right arm is numb, some bundle of nerves or perhaps tendons severed by a lucky strike. His left has a persistent sympathetic ache. He spins his wrist and flexes the joints and lets the PEPS cannon reform itself.

“Drop it,” he orders, tasting blood from a knocked-out tooth.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” his other self says. “You don’t _have_ -”

PEPS disappears with a flash and a flick, the nanoblade nestled tight in his own left arm snapping out on instinct.

“You don’t have to be this,” the other man says, softly this time. Eyes are soft, grip on the makeshift knife is soft, everything about him is-

He checks his disgust, swallows it down.

“I know what I am,” he tells the other man.

“And so do you,” he adds, in case the first sentence wasn’t guide enough to how this- how _all_ of this- had to go.

“You don’t even know your _name,”_ the other man says, ever so painfully soft.

The hacker locked in the labs behind him had been panicked, terrified, when he first woke up. The Illuminati agents who brought him in hadn’t been kind, it was freely obvious. He’d fought at the too tight handcuffs, until he’d caught motion in the corner of his eye, looked up-

_Adam?_ he’d said.

Said?

Asked.

He makes the nanoblade to return to its housing and re-engages PEPS, fighting the strained burning headache in the back of his head where his biochip sits. “I know who I’m not,” he says, and then he attacks. ~~  
~~

 

 

The blade piercing his sternum and dug in next to his heart is calming, in a way. It’s something to focus on, while the memories of a life that’s not his radiate from the back of his brain. Sitting on the hood of a car looking down at a massive rent in the earth. Putting down a scope and shaking. Floating face down in a cold, defunct ocean.

Mint.

And oil.

And a few names he can’t remember.

By the time the two men run back by, he’s nearly dead. His progenitor stops short and starts fast, dashes over to kneel down and grab a wrist and check his pulse. At the unexpected touch, his eyes flick open a bit, but there’s nothing real in them. His augmentations lost their ability to function several pints of blood ago.

Still, there’s an attempt. The memory of a feeling brushes his mind and his lips twitch.

The clone feels another’s hand on him, even if what’s left of him knows he can’t know that. Maybe he’s imagining it. Like he’s imagining the screams. And the shattering glass.

Opening the door and lips meeting his. _Idiot. What have you done_ this _time?_

The clone’s blood-dried mouth moves, barely moves, but its enough that the two men start shushing him, running hands over his injures.

He knows. He knows, even if he doesn’t believe. But…

_I love you,_ he tries to say, to the memories that are real above him.

He knows. He knows they can’t hear him.

But maybe if he believes, maybe this time, if he just…

His hypovolemic breath catches hard in his throat. So does the memory of opening his eyes and being beside someone. And maybe this time, he can… Maybe this time, things will be…

The clone’s body shudders hard, and he goes limp in Adam’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to just be the end of ti but i cant leave my bby like that I CANT DO IT TO 'EM  
> i will do it later tho. i have a bunch of wips to handle at the moment


End file.
